“It is the judgment of this court that you vamose thecamp ... in the customary way， sir， in the customary way.”
Judge Marcus O’Brien was absent-minded， and MuclucCharley nudged him in the ribs. Marcus O’Brien clearedhis throat and went on—
“Weighing the gravity of the offence， sir， and theextenuating circumstances， it is the opinion of this court，and its verdict， that you be outfitted with three days’ grub.
That will do， I think.”
Arizona Jack cast a bleak glance out over the Yukon. Itwas a swollen， chocolate flood， running a mile wide andnobody knew how deep. The earth-bank on which hestood was ordinarily a dozen feet above the water， but theriver was now growling at the top of the bank， devouring，instant by instant， tiny portions of the top-standingsoil. These portions went into the gaping mouths of theendless army of brown swirls and vanished away. Severalinches more， and Red Cow would be flooded.
“It won’t do，” Arizona Jack said bitterly. “Three days’
grub ain’t enough.”
“There was Manchester，” Marcus O’Brien repliedgravely. “He didn’t get any grub.”
“And they found his remains grounded on the LowerRiver an’ half eaten by huskies，” was Arizona Jack’s retort.
“And his killin’ was without provocation. Joe Deevesnever did nothin’， never warbled once， an’ jes’ because hisstomach was out of order， Manchester ups an’ plugs him.
You ain’t givin’ me a square deal， O’Brien， I tell you thatstraight. Give me a week’s grub， and I play even to winout. Three days’ grub， an’ I cash in.”
“What for did you kill Ferguson？” O’Brien demanded.
“I haven’t any patience for these unprovoked killings. Andthey’ve got to stop. Red Cow’s none so populous. It’s agood camp， and there never used to be any killings. Nowthey’re epidemic. I’m sorry for you， Jack， but you’ve got tobe made an example of. Ferguson didn’t provoke enoughfor a killing.”
“Provoke！” Arizona Jack snorted. “I tell you， O’Brien，you don’t savve. You ain’t got no artistic sensibilities.
What for did I kill Ferguson？ What for did Ferguson sing‘Then I wisht I was a little bird’？ That’s what I want toknow. Answer me that. What for did he sing ‘little bird，little bird’？ One little bird was enough. I could a-stood onelittle bird. But no， he must sing two little birds. I gave ’ma chanst. I went to him almighty polite and requested himkindly to discard one little bird. I pleaded with him. Therewas witnesses that testified to that.
“An’ Ferguson was no jay-throated songster，” some onespoke up from the crowd.
O’Brien betrayed indecision.
“Ain’t a man got a right to his artistic feelin’s？” ArizonaJack demanded. “I gave Ferguson warnin’. It was violatin’
my own nature to go on listening to his little birds. Why，there’s music sharps that fine-strung an’ keyed-up they’dkill for heaps less’n I did. I’m willin’ to pay for havin’
artistic feelin’s. I can take my medicine an’ lick the spoon，but three days’ grub is drawin’ it a shade fine， that’s all， an’
I hereby register my kick. Go on with the funeral.”
O’Brien was still wavering. He glanced inquiringly atMucluc Charley.
“I should say， Judge， that three days’ grub was a mitesevere，” the latter suggested； “but you’re runnin’ the show.
When we elected you judge of this here trial court， weagreed to abide by your decisions， an’ we’ve done it， too，b’gosh， an’ we’re goin’ to keep on doin’ it.”
“Mebbe I’ve been a trifle harsh， Jack，” O’Brien saidapologetically— “I’m that worked up over those killings；an’ I’m willing to make it a week’s grub.” He cleared histhroat magisterially and looked briskly about him. “Andnow we might as well get along and finish up the business.
The boat’s ready. You go and get the grub， Leclaire. We’llsettle for it afterward.”
Arizona Jack looked grateful， and， muttering somethingabout “damned little birds，” stepped aboard the openboat that rubbed restlessly against the bank. It was a largeskiff， built of rough pine planks that had been sawed byhand from the standing timber of Lake Linderman， a fewhundred miles above， at the foot of Chilcoot. In the boatwere a pair of oars and Arizona Jack’s blankets. Leclairebrought the grub， tied up in a flour-sack， and put it onboard. As he did so， he whispered— “I gave you goodmeasure， Jack. You done it with provocation.”
“Cast her off！” Arizona Jack cried.
Somebody untied the painter and threw it in. The currentgripped the boat and whirled it away. The murderer didnot bother with the oars， contenting himself with sitting inthe stern-sheets and rolling a cigarette. Completing it， hestruck a match and lighted up. Those that watched on thebank could see the tiny puffs of smoke. They remained onthe bank till the boat swung out of sight around the bendhalf a mile below. Justice had been done.
The denizens of Red Cow imposed the law and executedsentences without the delays that mark the softness ofcivilization. There was no law on the Yukon save whatthey made for themselves. They were compelled to makeit for themselves. It was in an early day that Red Cowflourished on the Yukon—1887—and the Klondike and itspopulous stampedes lay in the unguessed future. The menof Red Cow did not even know whether their camp wassituated in Alaska or in the North- west Territory， whetherthey drew breath under the stars and stripes or under theBritish flag. No surveyor had ever happened along to givethem their latitude and longitude. Red Cow was situatedsomewhere along the Yukon， and that was sufficient forthem. So far as flags were concerned， they were beyond alljurisdiction. So far as the law was concerned， they were inNo-Man’s land.
They made their own law， and it was very simple. TheYukon executed their decrees. Some two thousand milesbelow Red Cow the Yukon flowed into Bering Sea througha delta a hundred miles wide. Every mile of those twothousand miles was savage wilderness. It was true， wherethe Porcupine flowed into the Yukon inside the ArcticCircle there was a Hudson Bay Company trading post.
